


Heirs and Graces

by BisexualRoger (HyperPluviophile)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Aristocrat AU, Bourgeois but make it fun, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Georgian Period, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Masked ball, OT4, Poly queen, Purple Prose, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-01-30 05:50:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21423229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyperPluviophile/pseuds/BisexualRoger
Summary: The disappointing heir to the Bulsara estate, Freddie Mercury spends most of his days trying to convince his father's overworked accountant Brian to pursue his dreams of becoming an astronomer, and creating stress for his faithful gardener John.This is until a mysterious stranger arrives on his doorstep, bringing with him a new lease of life for both Freddie and his companions.(Or- The self indulgent Poly!Queen Georgian Au full of purple prose that nobody asked for)
Relationships: John Deacon/Brian May/Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor
Comments: 32
Kudos: 54





	1. The Accountant and The Heir

**Author's Note:**

> My way of winding down from froger week is apparently writing the hammiest, most purple prose filled fic I can think of. Ahaha it's cheesy and self indulgent and if I ever get around to updating it'll be in 500 word installments at best, but also what's the point of writing fanfiction if you can't do an impulsive Georgian Au featuring Freddie Mercury every once in a while? xx 
> 
> Also this isn't beta'd and I don't proof read so I'm sorry if there's any mistakes xx

By the time Brian emerges from the library the hallway is bathed in a soft flush of candlelight. Were the accountant and his client staying longer doubtless the entire house would be ignited in the same glow, but luckily for the heir and permanent resident neither have plans to linger, so he’s been able to keep the majority of the place in his preferred semi-darkness. 

From his vantage point on the stairs (far back enough that he himself is swallowed by the darkness but still has a clear view of the figures below) Freddie watches as his father and Brian exchange a few words. Instructions for further work most likely. Then the older man gives a huff and taps the floor with his cane, before striding off down the hallway. For a man his age and stature the speed at which he moves is remarkable. Doubtless he’s as anxious to be gone from the house as his son is to see him leave. But not until the clicking of his walking staff has faded to almost nothing does Freddie finally step out of the shadows. 

“Brian” He greets “How are you? It’s been far too long” 

Although the dim lighting makes everyone appear somewhat gaunt, Brian’s face is downright skeletal with exhaustion. Nevertheless this doesn’t stop his eyes from lighting up when he spies Freddie “Tired” He replies “But glad to see you” 

The pair embrace. Freddie laughs, clapping him affectionately on the back “Don’t let my father hear you say that, he works you hard enough as it is without him thinking you’re slacking” 

“You don’t have to remind me” There’s a slight exhausted sway in Brian’s posture when the two pull apart, and his shoulders are slumped forward from both the weight of his career and the case full of papers in his hand. In Freddie’s eyes it’s such an immeasurable pity that he’s forced to work himself to such a point of fatigue for so few thanks. Especially since he’ll only use the arduous carriage journey back to London as an excuse to fit more work into his already absurd schedule. 

“Why don’t you stay the night dear?” He asks after a pause “Surely you don’t want to be making such a long trip on a night like this. We could have some drinks, and you could finally tell me about this fantastic paper you’re going to write” 

Brian gives him a sad, weary smile “I’d love to Fred, really I would but...” He trails off. Between his friend’s imploring gaze and his own desire to be close to a roaring fire instead of trapped in a coach it’s clear that he’s facing a difficult dilemma. On the one hand if he falls even the slightest bit behind Freddie’s father will doubtless let him go (years of loyalty and hard work be damned) But on the other… A glass of port now would certainly keep him warm later. He lets out a hollow huff “I suppose one drink couldn’t hurt. But then I really must be on my way, your father will-” 

Freddie grins at him “Oh damn what my father wants” In careless delight he pulls the case away from his companions hands and sets it down at the foot of the stairs. 

“Careful” Cautions Brian “He’s still in the building. Don’t give him an excuse to take away your inheritance” 

“Rubbish” Replies Freddie. Taking Brian’s arm he leads him away from the glare of the candles and back up into the darkness from whence he’d come minutes earlier “He can’t stand being here for more than an hour, it reminds him what a disappointment I am. Knowing him he’ll already be halfway to the Thames by now. He can’t seem to get away from me fast enough” 

The remark sends the pair of them into a fit of laughter. For the first time since observing his arrival earlier this evening Freddie sees the weight lift from Brian’s shoulders somewhat. This more than ever steels his resolve to provide the younger man with both emotional and physical nourishment, and to encourage him where possible to stop the night here as opposed to heading straight for home. 

Through the darkened landing they navigate their way to the drawing room. Outside the wind is picking up to a howl, but here in the light of a newly ignited fire they’re as cosy as can be. While Freddie pours each of them a generous slug of brandy Brian’s eyes fall to a huge cluster of plants in the center of the room. The elaborate bouquet is balanced precariously in a vase that’s far too small, but whose colour accentuates the various hues in the petals almost perfectly. If Freddie weren’t already painting them he’d say they’d make a beautiful picture. 

Brian seems to agree “Lovely flowers” He says, slumping down heavily into the armchair closest to the flames “I’m assuming they’re John’s handiwork?” 

Taking a seat opposite, Freddie nods “Isn’t he an absolute wonder in the garden? I had him bring these here for me so I could draw them. His birthday’s coming up you know, and I thought what better gift than an immortalisation of his best work” 

“He’ll love it. I know he will” Brian looks around the room “Speaking of John where-” 

“He’s bringing the garden furniture inside. He’s been talking all day about how it’s going to rain soon, not that you’d have known it looking at the sun earlier but now of course…” Right on cue Freddie’s interrupted by a crash of thunder, the first of the night. 

Brian shakes his head, a smile on the corner of his lips “How? How does he always know?”

“I’ve got no idea. He’s one on his own John is” Freddie brings his glass of brandy to his lips. Over the top of it he watches his companion stifle a yawn, then another. Then one more. Lowering his drink he frowns at Brian “Darling you look so absolutely shattered, are you sure you can’t stay the night?” Then for additional persuasive measure he adds “I’ll even let you play with my telescope again. And don’t you look at me like that, I know you want to” 

The accountant gives a small snort of laughter “It’s not exactly an ideal night for star gazing is it?” He asks “Besides, your father wants me to write up a report on his latest profit margins. I need to keep my head firmly on my shoulders and out of the clouds” Despite what he says it’s clear that his thoughts are not on the papers stuffed neatly into his suitcase, but rather on the sleek gold telescope mounted temptingly on the library wall. Abandoned, and all but begging to be used. 

“Hm” Freddie runs a hand thoughtfully around the brim of his brandy glass “I wonder if my father knows he’s depriving the world of one of the greatest thinkers of our generation” 

A heavy blush creeps over Brian’s cheeks as he averts his eyes to the fire “Don’t say that”

“Why not? It’s true isn’t it” 

Brian sighs heavily, looking up at his companion through eyes that are almost pitch black in the shadow of the flames “Star gazing doesn’t pay the bills Freddie” 

“Neither does painting. Do you see me complaining?” Abandoning his glass on the table Freddie shuffles to the edge of his seat, moving far enough forward so as to be able to take his friends hand in his own “You’d be absolutely marvellous if you stopped letting that monster shove you around, I know it” 

“Thank you” Brian squeezes his hand affectionately in return, but the troubled look doesn’t leave his face. 

As much as it’s difficult Freddie tries not to be too downhearted on the accountants behalf. For nigh on five years they’ve performed this song and dance, with Brian being disenchanted with his profession, Freddie encouraging him to pursue his passions, and the cycle moving on and on in an endless loop with the only change being that Brian has become more and more weary as the years have gone by. 

For Freddie it’s anguish to watch. If only there were more he could do. But alas, until Brian himself takes the initiative to finally break away from the torture of counting numbers day after day there’s little he can do but attempt to reassure him in these few scattered moments they have together. Even if that reassurance often comes in the form of clutching at each other’s hands in a manner that’s far from being inside the norms of friendly etiquette. 

Silence reigns in the drawing room for a moment. Then there’s another almighty crash of thunder that has both of them flinching in their seats. 

“Good lord” Brian glances anxiously at the window, which has now been engulfed by sheets of rain “I hope John’s not still out there” 

Freddie nods, brow furrowing “Me too” He withdraws his hand from Brian’s to return to thoughtfully palming the edge of his brandy glass “If he’s not up here in five minutes or so I’ll go and fetch him”


	2. The Gardener

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Freddie and Brian discuss astronomy in the drawing room John makes a disturbing discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I losing my mind? Quite possibly.

It’s through sheer happenstance that John has found himself caught in the very thunderstorm he’s been predicting for days now. 

If only he’d not been so distracted by the arrival of Mr Bulsara senior then he’d have had this job finished hours ago, but alas, he's only the gardner. Hence when he’s asked to make tea, he does so. Even if it’s not his job. Freddie’s of the mind that the next time his father asks John to do something so absurdly outside of his job he should spit in the cup, but John prefers a more subtle revenge. And if anyone asks him then no, the decision to replace all the bouquets in the house with Aster flowers (which Mr Bulsara is notoriously allergic to) just before the man’s arrival next time he comes was a complete coincidence. 

Not that he’s able to take much joy in his planned sabotage now; he’s absolutely soaked right down to his undershirt and the wind won’t stop whipping his hair into his eyes, periodically blinding him. There’s only one more thing to be moved into the relative safety of the summer house, but even the effort of transporting that might prove too much. He’s cold and tired and hungry and he’d like nothing more than to be inside as everyone with any common sense must be. 

Grasping at the rain slicked arm of the last remaining wicker chair on the lawn he lifts the seat over his head and onto his shoulders. It being little more than woven varnished straw it doesn’t do much to protect him from the rain, but then it’s better than nothing. Besides, at least now it’s not in his line of vision. The last thing he needs is to trip on a stray stone and break his arm all because his view is being obstructed by something as trivial as a lawn chair. Freddie would never let him hear the end of it. 

Upon finally reaching the summer house tucked beside the Eastern fence he drops the object with as little grace as necessary and rests a moment against the doorframe. Amplified by the thin wooden walls surrounding him, the sound of the rain is practically deafening. So much so that even from his current location of relative shelter he feels as though he’s right in the eye of the storm. At the epicenter of the wind and the thunder and the icy clouds themselves. Thus although he’s of the mind that a little rain never hurt anyone he hesitates before preparing to make a dash back to the open kitchen door. 

And it’s this hesitation that means he doesn’t miss the sudden distant cry of distress. John freezes, unsure for a moment if what he’d heard had been just a trick of the wind. But then there it is again, this time unmistakable as the shrieking of a frightened horse, coming from somewhere not too far from his right, but almost fully masked by the sheer volume of the rain. Poking his head out around the summer house door reveals just as he had suspected- A grey mare not several meters from the garden fence, kicking its hooves up and whining loudly with every new flash of lightning. 

In an instant John’s over the fence and by the animals side, narrowly avoiding having his skull caved in before he’s successfully able to land his hands on its neck and begin to soothe the creature. His already numb fingers slip over the damp fur, however he keeps as tight a grip as he can until it finally grows quieter. Animals breaking free in this sort of weather is far from uncommon. Doubtless it’s come from the nearby farm, or the inn perhaps. In any case it’s alone and not his, so he’d be remiss if he didn’t bring it to their stables for the night. 

Which he’s just about to do, when another bolt of light for a split second illuminates that which John had almost missed in the darkness. A man. Lying slumped on the grass with one arm tucked haphazardly beneath him and the other sprawled out over his chest and a trail of blood running from his temple into the puddles of rain around him. John’s heart practically falls out of his chest. There’s a moment when the entire world seems to slam to an abrupt halt. Is the figure dead? Perhaps the first cry he’d heard hadn’t been the horse, but this unfortunate stranger falling from his mount. But then who’d be out on a night like this to begin with?

As if the young gardener weren’t already petrified as it is he quickly finds an answer to the former question, when out of nowhere the figure gaspes and splutters. In a split second his eyes (appearing as pitch black as the rest of his being in the dark of the night) fly to John, and he reaches out a shaky hand before his whole body goes limp and he falls once more to the ground. All of this happening in the space of barely half a minute John is understandably shaken. That being an understatement of course. 

With one hand seemingly solidified to the horse he glances around frantically. But of course, there’s no one nearby to offer aid. And who knows what would happen were he to return to the house for help? Those crucial minutes could be the difference between life and death for the injured stranger at his feet. 

No. He has to act now. After tying the horse to the fence (with the intent to return for it later) he hoists the man into his arms. He’s smaller than he’d appeared, fitting neatly into a bridal style carry that only needs adjusting when John has to climb back over the fence. Throughout all of this the man remains alarmingly silent, which only hastens the gardener’s progress. 

Much as he’s trying to avoid the topic his mind can’t help but race to what might’ve happened had he not been in the exact right place at the right time. Who would’ve found him had he not fallen behind on his work? The icy chill that creeps down his spine at the mere thought tells him that he already knows the answer. Had he not been by the summer house he would’ve found himself carrying a corpse in the morning, if he’s not carrying one already.


	3. The Doctor and The Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A doctor is sent for and another stranger arrives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..... Eh, I'll be honest, whatever Georgian ghost possessed me to write last weeks two chapters has kind of vanished so this was sort of a struggle to write and definitely won't be anywhere near as good as what I published last week. Nevertheless I hope you guys can still enjoy it 💗 and as usual I don't beta read so if there's any mistakes in this please let me know xxx

Strange, thinks Freddie, how someone can appear simultaneously so dynamic and so fragile. 

For despite his current unconscious state there’s an unmistakable air of life to the man in the bed. In both his delicate features (so soft Freddie had mistaken him for a woman when John had first carried him in) and in the hard muscles in his arms, characteristic of one who enjoys the more vigorous pursuits of riding and fencing perhaps. 

But these signs of virility are currently buried beneath a heavy layer of illness. The features inflamed with fever. The muscles bathed in a literal and metaphorical shadow that the more superstitious side of Freddie wants to name death. 

When John had first arrived with this ailing stranger the three of them had wasted little time attending to him. Laying him on the sofa in Freddie’s private suit they’d stripped the man of his rain soaked clothes, before taking it in turns to dip silk handkerchiefs into the unfinished glasses of brandy in order to attempt to clear the wound on his head. A futile gesture maybe, especially in the face of such a brutal fever, but it was both the most and the least they could do. 

Now they keep a silent vigil as Doctor Beach (freshly fetched from the village) moves from the man’s heartbeat to his skull to his pupils. Aside from the occasional nondescript hum he gives away little as he gently pushes the unconscious blond every which way in an attempt to uncover the nature of his condition. It’s a morbid spectacle. And yet the trio continue to gaze on. Perhaps afraid that if they don’t bear witness something awful might come to pass. 

Only after several tense minutes that seem to last an eternity does Doctor Beach step away from the bed to solemnly address the group.

“Without him being conscious it’s difficult to say what the damage might be” He concludes. Being a professional he keeps his voice almost perfectly neutral, but the underlying severity of his words carries an impact nonetheless “The wound on his temple looks superficial, but then appearances can be deceiving. If he wakes up disoriented then with the fever it’ll be difficult to distinguish between permanent damage and temporary incoherence” He looks to Freddie “I’ll stay the night, if you don’t mind, just to be sure I can keep an eye on him” 

Freddie shakes his head “Of course not. The guest room across the landing should be prepared if you’d like to…” He gestures towards the door, not needing to give any further directions as the doctor is (unfortunately) all too familiar with the layout of the house. Previous misfortunes have meant he’s no stranger to the Bulsara estate. 

With a nod Doctor Beach gathers up his equipment “Thank you” He makes a swift exit, his black coat swishing around his ankles and his eyes downcast in deep thought. No doubt he’ll spend the rest of the night writing down his various findings (or lack thereof in this case) and desperately attempting to account for every possibility. 

This leaves Freddie, John and Brian stood in a numb silence. No one moves. Each man feeling somewhat lost. All eyes are on the stranger as though they’re looking to him for instructions, even though they’ll obviously never come. Again Freddie ponders the absurdity of how the unconscious can command a room without words. Their very presence demands your attention, whether you like it or not. 

This effect is only amplified by the appearance of this particular invalid; garbed in Freddie’s own white night shirt and with his shoulder length golden hair framing his face the stranger, at least to the heirs own mind, looks almost doll like. Akin perhaps to the porcelain figures found on the shelves of upper market toy shops. The innocence of the image contrasts starkly with the severity of the situation at hand.

And yet Freddie’s nothing if not an artist. So the inappropriate comparisons continue to flow through his head. An angel. Millais’ Ophelia. Le Morte d'Arthur...

Each one makes him feel just a little more maudlin. 

It takes a conscious effort on his part to shake himself out of his miserable stupor “Well. That’s that then” He declares, turning his back on the suffering blond to instead face his companions. 

The effect of his words is almost instantaneous. With the tense atmosphere finally broken Brian, moving for what seems to be the first time in hours, sinks down onto the sofa. It’s with bleary eyes and all the weariness of a man who’s lived far longer than the accountants twenty five years that he asks “Is there anymore brandy left?” 

Silently Freddie passes him the still half full glass he’d abandoned on the mantelpiece when they’d first entered his bedchamber. Truth be told he himself could use a strong drink too. Slumping beside the accountant on the sofa he pats the vacant space beside him, inviting John to join them. Although he’s maintaining a remarkable facade of being wholly unbothered by the entire affair it’s impossible to miss the furrow in his brow, or the shake in his clenched hands, or the way his gaze continues to impulsively flick back to the four poster bed. 

Once he’s had his own fill of the brandy Freddie gives John a gentle nudge “You ought to have some too dear. It’ll calm your nerves” 

With a small nod of gratitude John takes the glass but doesn’t bring it to his lips. “Who do you think he is?” He asks. Despite Freddie’s best efforts to keep his mind away from their guest it seems John isn’t as willing to leave the matter alone, despite the fact that all three of them are equally as helpless in the face of the fever. 

“Based on his clothes? Some sort of aristocrat perhaps. Or a highway man. Either’s possible really” Freddie glances at the thick burgundy coat they’d peeled off the stranger, its presumably gold trimmed hemline buried under a thick layer of mud, and at least one brass button missing from the front. There’s a real poetic tragedy to its condition, one reflective of its former wearer in that both are beautiful but now quite possibly irreversibly damaged. 

“I’ll go out tomorrow and have another look by the fence” Murmurs John. He’s still nursing the brandy, and only after Freddie gives him a second gentle nudge does he finally take a distracted sip “The rain’s easing off now, some of his tracks might still be there” 

With no objections and nothing else of wisdom to contribute Freddie nods. John knows the surrounding lands better than anyone. If there’s anyone who’d be better suited to the task then the heir has yet to meet them. 

That being settled the room falls once more into a painstaking silence. To his left Brian’s leaning heavily on the arm of the chair (alert for the time being but with his earlier sleepiness making an obvious return) meanwhile to his right John continues to steal anxious glances at the stranger. It’s obvious that for varying reasons both ought to be shepherded to bed fairly soon, regardless of how reluctant they might be to do so. Luckily given that the former is exhausted and the latter is soaked through- prompting periodic shivers- which is to say nothing of the fact that this is first and foremost Freddie’s room, the heir has a compelling enough case to send them away with little fuss. Even if neither leave without protesting the need to return promptly to London or keep an eye on their guest respectively. 

John especially has a slightly resentful reluctance in his eyes as he’s directed away from the sickbed and towards a hot bath. It makes sense, Freddie supposes, given what he knows both about the man’s temperament and history, but it’s troubling nonetheless. Perhaps once all this has settled down he’ll have a talk with him about certain… Previous incidents that might be prompting such a reaction. 

Regardless, the present being not the time for that sort of conversation he makes himself comfortable on the sofa. Stretching out and allowing himself to unload the tension that’d kept him strung like a puppet all night. Outside the climax of the storm is finally starting to ease away, and with nothing else much to do Freddie produces a notebook and pencil from the desk beside him, with the subject of his attention naturally being the silent patient he’s keeping watch over. 

For those unfamiliar with the inner workings of Freddie Mercury’s mind the decision to sit and draw at such a possibly dire time as this might seem strange. But for the man himself it’s neither morbid nor anything he hasn’t done before. There had been a tragedy, similar to this one, when he’d sat beside the bed of a terribly ill young man and filled an entire sketchbook with what some might call ghastly images. They’d given him comfort and solace. Meanwhile they’d also been something of an insurance. A token of his grief to provide the man’s extended family with. 

So now here he sits again. A near perfect reflection of how he’d been then, with his pencil in one hand and notebook clutched in the other. And it’s with a strange sense of calm that he’s prepared for the worst to come to pass. Should the young man not survive there’ll doubtless be someone out there missing him, and in that case the least he can do is provide some form of consolation, even if it’s in the form of a deathbed portrait. So, amidst the backdrop of the still pouring rain, he sketches. Captures each and every detail of the figure in front of him all while trying to ignore the ache of how young his subject appears, how fragile. It works. Sort of. Being focused on his art is the best method he has for clearing his mind. 

But only when the first vestiges of early dawn are poking through the curtains does he find the peace needed to slip into a restless sleep.

The morning after the discovery of the injured stranger finds John and Brian outside on the lawn. With the days growing ever shorter sunrise on the estate now consists of an increasingly chill layer of frost, that seems all the fresher on account of the breeze that naturally flows down the surrounding hills in an ever present current. It’s in the shadow of these hills that the pair stand, wincing a little at the first glares of the sun. 

Their task being a fairly self explanatory one (uncover any clues as to the identity of the injured man) by the time they’ve reached the summer house the conversation has flowed into the territory of the general, starting with Brian remarking that in all the chaos of yesterday he’d been unable to have a full hello with John, and then subsequently inquiring after the gardener’s overall well being. 

With one foot halfway towards mounting the Eastern fence (the very same as he’d vaulted last night) John looks curiously at his companion “I’d say that by the looks of things I’m doing better than you” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Asks Brian. Truthfully he’s getting very tired of having his appearance insulted at every given opportunity. Not that he’s oblivious to how haggard his reflection in the mirror is, but still. It seems unfair nonetheless. Especially when those critiques come from Freddie, whose hobby of painting could hardly be considered “Hard work” and John, who only needs to bat his eyelashes at Freddie in the correct manner to avoid working altogether. 

And to add insult to injury as Brian speaks he finds himself stuck with one leg on one side of the fence and the other still firmly planted on the ground behind him, the icy layer clinging to the wooden planks rapidly soaking through the leg of his trousers. Having a height advantage over his companion apparently means little with regards to activities that require balance and physical prowess. Both of which he unfortunately lacks. 

Luckily John’s not one to let him suffer this idignity- at least for no longer than a moment- and soon he finds himself being given a sturdy hand by which to lever himself over the top and onto the dewy grass below. 

“You work too hard” Says John with a frown. Already he’s striding off over the moist grass, feet sinking slightly into the remnants of yesterday's mud. Which means the comment doesn’t even have the time to sting Brian, who’s practically having to run to catch up with him “When was the last time you saw daylight?” 

“Around the same time you last saw some manners I’d imagine” Replies Brian. 

He gives John a wry look that only barely manages not to dissolve into a smile. For while anyone else might interpret their conversation as indifference at best and outright contempt at worse this sort of gentle ribbing is the primary meat of their friendship. There’s little malice in it, even if John’s bluntness is enough to make Brian want to shrivel into a pile of ashes at times. Besides, Brian’s known plenty of business men who’ll say nothing but pleasantries to his face but would undoubtedly impale him for a shilling or less. Not John though. What you see is undoubtedly what you get. And there’s a tangible reassurance that comes with knowing that. 

As the pair make their way to a hole in the distant hedgerow Brian kicks a fallen tree branch from under his feet “So what do you make of this man?” 

“There’s not much I _can_ make of him. He hasn’t spoken yet” Says John. Then he frowns “I hope he’s alright though, Doctor Beach seems worried” __

_ _“Doctor Beach is always worried” Snorts Brian. _ _

_ _“Not without good reason” John raises an eyebrow pointedly at the accountants right arm. An apparent literal and metaphorical sore spot, as the accountant opens his mouth to retort, only to be distracted by a distant figure approaching through the very gap the pair had been aiming for. _ _

_ _Even from here it’s clear he’s soaked to the bone, and his eyes are scanning the surrounding shrubbery with an anxiety that borders on the frantic. For a moment Brian’s tempted to circumvent him altogether, but he’s nothing if not a gentleman so when the stranger signals for him to halt he does so. _ _

_ _“Excuse me, gentlemen” His voice has a weary roughness to it as he addresses the couple “I’m really sorry to bother you but I’ve lost something rather important to me, I don’t suppose you’ve seen it?” _ _

_ _Brian looks from the man to John and then back again “Not unless you’ve lost a young man with blonde hair and a grey horse?” _ _

_ _Contrary to what he’s expecting the stranger’s eyes go wide “That’d be the one”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. I hope that wasn't as bad as it felt while I was writing it and ahsjkfld I'll see you guys next week xx


	4. The Patient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie finally comes face to face with his mysterious guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey xx I know I'm a day late updating this but I had some stuff on yesterday so I've only just got around to posting it today. It was meant to be a longer chapter too so I'm sorry it's so short, hopefully the next update will be longer 💗

Since Brian and John’s departure some hour or two earlier the bedroom has been doused in silence, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire and the scratch of Freddie’s pen. With Doctor Beach having not yet roused the responsibility of watching over their sickly guest has fallen once again to the heir, not that he minds of course. Having only slept for a few uncomfortable hours naturally his neck is somewhat stiff, and there’s certainly a headache building at the edges of his temples that he knows is bound to put him in a monstrous mood later, but then that’s a small price to pay when he still has his health and wits. The silent patient across the room is a poignant reminder that life could always be worse. Hence it’s far for him to complain about something as minor as sore muscles. 

However despite the fact that their guest seems to have survived the night mostly unscathed Freddie’s hopes remain far from high. Again, without Doctor Beach he can’t reach any definitive conclusions, but even with his own incredibly limited knowledge of the biological, the heir is acutely aware that an entire night unresponsive after such a head injury as that can hardly be a good omen. Besides, as far as he can observe there’s been no visible improvement since last night. Excluding the thin sheen of sweat now clinging to both the mans forehead and chest (the latter bare through the low neckline of the Freddie’s nightshirt), he appears much the same as he had done when he’d first arrived. 

Hence when Freddie hears the faintest of moans from across the room he practically falls off the sofa in surprise. In an instant he’s beside the bed, heart pounding and breath caught in his throat as he watches, paralysed to the spot, for any other sounds or movements, however small or seemingly insignificant. An agonising moment passes. Then another, with no further signs of life. 

Biting his lip Freddie releases the breath he’d been anxiously holding as disappointment pools in his chest. Perhaps his subconscious, in all its wishful thinking, had conjured the sound from the myriad of noises being spat from the fireplace. It wouldn’t be the first time his overactive imagination had done such a thing after all. 

But then there it is again. An unmistakable (if nearly inaudible) whine of pain that passes through the split pair of lips beneath him. Once again Freddie finds himself quite unable to breathe. Lowering himself slowly into the chair beside the bed he has to near sit on his hands to keep them from shaking. Were he not sleep deprived and thus in a better state of mind he might’ve had the sense to shout for Doctor Beach, but as it stands all he can do is watch in horrified awe. 

The stranger twitches. His brow furrows. And then, finally, his eyelids flutter open, revealing a pair of baby blue eyes that are hazy with fatigue and yet somehow alight with confusion and pain. With a weak cough, he looks first to the canopy high above his head before his gaze comes to rest on his stunned host. 

Ever the voyeur as opposed to the proactive initiator it takes Freddie a good few seconds to find his voice. In all his musings the possibility that the stranger might live had seemed more and more remote. Increasingly outweighed by the seemingly more pressing (and more likely) outcome he hadn’t given too much thought as to what he would say or do if he suddenly found himself face to face alone with his injured guest.

“It’s alright” Soothes the heir, mind reeling as he attempts to recall what it is that Doctor Beach might say, were he here “Don’t try to sit up yet darling, you’ve had a rather nasty fall” 

Beneath him the man blinks mutely back. Understandably disoriented he continues to stare, frown deepening in a way that doesn’t immediately reveal if his dazed state is merely a natural response to the unfamiliar surroundings or a symptom of the skull damage Doctor Beach had spoken of. Either way, Freddie is undoubtedly out of his depth. 

However that said he’s first and foremost a being of compassion, doctorate be damned. So in the absence of empirical knowledge to help him through he naturally resorts to a more comforting air. 

In an effort to be reassuring (and to stimulate conversation that might provide further insight) he gives his guest what he hopes is a warm smile “How’re you feeling?” 

The man licks his chapped lips. In the light of consciousness he’s even more ethereal in his appearance, with those delicate features no longer eerily frozen, and the virility they seem to conceal shining through despite his pallid skin and inflamed cheeks. More silence follows. Freddie can’t help but wonder if perhaps the ability to speak has been knocked from his brains by the fall. Or maybe he never possessed it to begin with. There’s no way to be sure. 

Then, remarkably, the barest hint of a grin pulls at the edges of the strangers mouth “Bloody awful” 

Although his voice may be rougher than sandpaper and the volume of it even weaker, the sound alone is enough to practically send Freddie into a fit of hysterics. Cut like a knife the tension in the room, built up throughout the entire night, has dissipated in an instant, leaving the heir almost unable to restrain the smile creeping onto his face because the man is going to live! And if that weren’t already remarkable in itself, he still seems to have at least some of his wits about him. It’s undoubtedly the result of too little sleep coupled with far too much stress in such a short time, but in Freddie’s mind, it’s nothing short of a miracle.

“I’m not surprised” Try as he might he can’t help himself from mirroring the man’s grin “If you don’t mind me saying you look absolutely ghastly” 

“Cheers” The stranger’s eyes flutter shut, but his smile too widens as he gives a weak snort of laughter “And how good would you look if you’d fallen off your horse and into a ditch?” 

“So you remember! Oh, that’s fantastic news!” Freddie’s beaming so much it almost hurts. Not that he pays the pain any mind. He’s too absorbed in his joy to be bothered by such a trifle thing. John and Brian are going to be absolutely delighted when they return, he’s sure of it. 

The man quirks an eyebrow weakly “I’d call it painful and incredibly inconvenient but, each to their own” 

Freddie shakes his head, his relief and joy encroaching into the realms of ineffability “The doctor was worried you’d have lost your entire memory, become a completely different person. He-” 

Beside him the blond moans “Don’t let him tell my father that. He’ll be dreadfully disappointed that I didn’t” 

“Well, we have that in common at least” Freddie laughs. Allowing himself one final impulsive chuckle he takes a deep breath and wrestles his emotions back under control. After such an anxious night, understandably, his feelings are somewhat scattered, but he is the heir and host after all. Much as this back and forth of quips is undoubtedly great fun he first and foremost has a duty of care to his ill guest “Leaning forward and lowering his voice to a more acceptable level he asks “What’s your name dear?” 

“Roger Taylor” Croaks the not-so-much-a-stranger “I was staying at an inn with my…” Midway through his sentence a look of horror crosses Roger’s face and he trails off, apparently having remembered something deathly important. Eyes reopening he whines, more to himself than to Freddie- “Damn it Crystal’s going to kill me” 

Taken instantly by this thought Roger tries to push himself upright but as expected almost immediately goes limp, with only Freddie’s reflexes keeping him from falling backwards and catching the back of his skull on the headboard. As he lowers his guest back down to the pillows Freddie can feel his earlier concern returning. Certainly, not calling for Doctor Beach earlier had resulted in a very dangerous near-miss with another head injury, and he makes a note to fetch the older man as soon as he’s significantly calmed Roger down. 

“I’m used to having the pretty ones fall at my feet but this is a bit excessive don’t you think? We’ve only just met” Freddie tries to keep a light tone, but it does nothing to soothe the young man’s sudden distress. 

“I need to get a letter to my friend Crystal, he’s…” Roger breaks off with a hiss of pain, breath hitching as he squeezes his eyes shut against the intrusive light streaking through the curtains, swallowing convulsively as he does so. Freddie wouldn’t have thought it possible but he’s turned an even more sickly shade of pale, this one bordering alarmingly on the green side. 

“Shh, there’ll be time to worry about that later. For now, I’d worry about yourself” Reaching out a tentative hand Freddie leans over and brushes through Roger’s sweat-soaked hair. A subtle caress of his forehead as he does so reveals that unfortunately, the outburst has done nothing for the young man’s fever, which still burns poignantly underneath Freddie’s fingertips. It’s a sobering reminder that despite Freddie’s earlier relief and Roger’s apparent penchant for banter the danger has far from passed “You took a good beating from the ground” Continues Freddie “and you’re only going to make that fever worse by fretting”

Roger doesn’t reply. He’s taking deep heaving breaths, damp chest rising and falling with an erratic franticness. Unable to do much more Freddie continues his efforts to soothe, mind whirring as he contemplates the next logical course of action

“I’m familiar with the inn a few miles away from here, perhaps that’s the one” He hums. Several minutes of deep contemplation having led his mind to the small pub he’s passed by once or twice in the village “As soon as I possible I’ll send someone out to find your friend, I swear. I have no idea if this title means anything to you but I’m Freddie Mercury, heir to the Bulsara estate. If there’s anyone who’ll be able to find this Crystal it’s me” 

Of course, this isn’t necessarily true. What he means is “If there’s anyone who’ll be able to find this Crystal it’s my gardener John” But of course in this context (that being attempting to put the mind of his poorly lodger at ease) the semantics hardly matter. Not that he’s even fully certain that Crystal is indeed a real person and not a fever driven figment of the addled imagination. Roger had seemed coherent enough up until his fainting episode, but Freddie’s distantly aware of the phenomenon of sickness seemingly preserving the wits while destroying the memory. Regardless, he at least now has two pressing responsibilities. The first of which being to rouse Doctor Beach and the second being to locate John and Brian to delegate to them the new task of finding Crystal. If he exists to be found. 

Satisfied Freddie looks down at Roger. His idle soothings appear to have done the trick somewhat, with the blond’s breaths finally beginning to even out into a more natural and reassuring pattern. In this state there’s no definitive way of telling if he’s asleep, awake or unconscious again (without of course accidentally disturbing him if his condition happens to be the former) but given that he vocalises no objections when the heir finally removes his hand Freddie feels no qualms leaving him alone for just a few minutes while he seeks some more qualified and capable hands. 

As he slowly stands to leave however he’s struck by an inordinate sadness, suddenly acutely aware of what a pity the entire situation is. The admittedly little he’d heard from Roger had been enough to conclude that the man is at least somewhat like himself, both in terms of humour and their apparent commonality of both being disappointing sons to scathing fathers. Naturally, the more rational part of his brain knows he can’t exactly create a full character profile from just one delirious interaction, but then at the same time, he almost can’t quite help himself. 

Once more limp against the pillows the unnaturally vibrant spots of colour in Roger’s cheeks contrast unmissably with the crisp white sheets. Again turning him into the object of grotesque fascination. Hm. It really is a pity. And it’s in this moment that Freddie decides he will find Crystal, no matter where the man might be or if it ultimately becomes the last thing he’ll ever do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading 💗 xx I hope you're all having an amazing day.

**Author's Note:**

> (I didn't realise until I was posting this chapter just how much of it sounds like sexual innuendo. I swear the telescope isn't a metaphor, asjdlffk it's a literal telescope)


End file.
